the corner waiting for me.
"Come over here, Doctor," called one of the men. "I have a bet with
Jim, and I want you to decide it."
I crossed over to the jolly group. "What is your bet?" I asked.
"Why," he replied, "I've bet Jim five dollars that you have never
mushed a dog-team."
"Well, you've lost," I answered. "I have driven dogs many times--and
never found it necessary to swear at them, either."
Before I go on with my story, perhaps I would better explain that word
"mush," as it is used in the Northwest. The word is never used in
Alaska as you use it in the East, to denote porridge, or some sort of
cereal. There we say "oatmeal" or "corn-meal," or simply "cereal."
In Alaska the word has but one use. It is a corruption of the French
_marchez, marche_, which the Canadian _coureurs du bois_, or travelers
of the woods, shout at their dogs when urging them along the trail.
From _marche_ to "mush" is easy. So now, throughout the great
Northwest, Canadian or Alaskan, when a man is traveling he is "on a
mush." When he is speaking to his dogs, either to drive them out of the
house or to urge them along the trail, he shouts "mush!" If he be a
good traveler, he is a "great musher." Of all the pet names they used
to give me up there, the one of which I was proudest was "The Mushing
Parson."
They tell a story, which has the ear-marks of truth, which illustrates
this universal use of the word "mush" in the Northwest.
Two miners, who for years had been in the mining camps of Alaska,
at last came "outside" to Seattle. In the morning they went to
a restaurant for breakfast and took seats at a table. A rather
cross-looking waitress came to take their order. "Mush?" she asked. The
miners looked at one another in surprise and alarm. The woman waited
a while, and when they did not answer she supposed they were deaf and
had not heard her question. "Mush?" she screamed. The two men arose
and fled. When they got safely to the sidewalk, one said to the other,
"Now, what the Sam Hill did she fire us for?"
There are three principal breeds of native dogs found in Alaska--the
Husky, the Malamute and the Siberian Dog--all descendants of wolves,
with wolfish traits and the wolf's warm coat and powers of endurance.
Of these the Malamute is the largest, descended, as he is, from the
great gray wolves of the Arctic regions. The Husky seems to be derived
from the red wolf of the McKenzie River Valley; while the Siberian Dog
has for ancestor the smaller, shorter-legged, heavier-furred Arctic
wolf of the Siberian coast. The smaller and more worthless dogs of
the southern Alaska Coast, if descended from wolves, must have the
coyote as their progenitor--having his lighter and slimmer body and his
sneaking, thievish, cowardly disposition.
Everywhere, however, the dog is largely what his master makes him, and
these northern wolf-dogs have greatly improved since they have fallen
into the hands of white masters. More intelligent breeding, greater
care in feeding and more careful training, have made them what they
are--the finest, most enduring and most dependable sleigh-dogs in the
world.
The dog is by all odds the most valuable animal of the Northwest to the
white miner and settler. He is the miner's horse, bicycle, automobile,
locomotive, all in one. Life in those wilds would be almost unendurable
without him. The miners appreciate this, and cases of cruelty and
mistreatment are very rare. In the days of the early gold stampedes the
_cheechackos_ or tenderfeet, who knew but little about life in the
wilderness, and still less about the dogs of the wilderness, sometimes
were guilty of abusing their dogs; but this very seldom occurred, and
the old-timers always frowned upon, and sometimes punished, cases of
cruelty. I remember once holding, with joy, the coat of one of these
old-timers at Dawson in the strenuous winter of 1897-8, while he
administered a very beautiful and artistic thrashing to a newcomer who
was guilty of beating his dogs with a heavy chain and knocking out the
eye of one of them.
But I cannot better give you an idea of what dog-mushing in the
Northwest is than by sketching a trip I took to a meeting of the
Presbytery of Yukon in March, 1912. I was at Iditarod, a new
gold-mining town in the western interior of Alaska. The meeting was
to be held at Cordova on the southern coast, seven hundred and twenty
miles distant. To reach Cordova I must cross four mountain ranges--the
Western, the Alaska, the Chugach and the Kenai Ranges; and traverse
four great river valleys--the Yukon, the Kuskoquim, the Susitna and
the Matanuska. There was first a very rough stretch of rudely marked
trail five hundred and twenty miles to Seward. There I would take
a steamboat two hundred miles to Cordova. Let us betake ourselves
together to this big miner's camp, and talk the matter over in the
free, familiar way of the Northwest:
A young fellow of Scotch descent hailing from the north of Ireland,
William Breeze, known far and wide as an experienced "dog musher," is
to be my companion on this trip. He is bound for Susitna, three hundred
miles from Iditarod, on a prospecting trip, and will take care of my
dogs, boil their feed at night and do the heaviest part of the work.
[Illustration: Dr. Young and his Dog Team
Iditarod, February, 1912]
And now let me introduce you to my team. It is one of the finest teams
in all the North. There are five pups of the same litter, now six or
seven years old. They are a cross between the McKenzie River husky and
the shepherd dog, and have the long hair and hardy endurance of the
former and the sagacity, intelligence and affection of the latter.
Being brothers, they know each other and are taught to work together,
although this fact does not hinder them from engaging in a general
free-for-all fight now and again. However, if attacked by strange dogs
the whole five work together beautifully, centering their forces with
Napoleonic strategy and beating the enemy in detail.
The leader is black, white and tan, marked like a shepherd dog. He has
been named "Nigger," but I have changed his name simply to "Leader."
It sounds enough like the original to please him and keep him going.
He is a splendid leader. He has a swift, swinging pace, and can keep
the trail when it is covered a foot deep by fresh snow and there is no
external sign of it. He has that intelligence which leads him to avoid
dangers, and he will stop and look back at you if there is a hole in
the ice or a dangerous slide, awaiting your orders and co-operation
before he essays the difficult problem. His knowledge of "Gee" and
"Haw" is perfect, the tone in which you pronounce these words and the
force with which you utter them telling him just how far to the right,
or to the left, he is to swing. "_Gee!_" spoken in a short, explosive,
loud tone will turn him square to the right, while "Ge-e-e, ge-e-e-e,"
in soft lengthened syllables, will make him veer slowly and gradually.
His sense of responsibility is very great, and his censorship of the
conduct of his fellow teamsters very severe. He will not tolerate any
shirking on their part and takes keen delight in their correction when
they deserve it. But he will fly at your throat if you touch _him_ with
the whip.
The "swing dogs" just behind him are "Moose" and "Ring," colored like
Irish setters. They have exactly the same gait, are the same size, and
almost the same coloring, "Ring" a little lighter than "Moose" and with
a white collar around his neck which suggested his name. "Moose" is a
little gentleman, the loveliest dog I have ever known. His traces are
always taut, and when you utter his name he will jump right up into the
air, straining on his collar. He knows the words of command as well as
the leader, and has never, perhaps, been touched with the whip. I think
chastisement would break his heart, for he would know it was unmerited.
He is my pet, the one dog of the team that I allow in my cabin, and
my companion in my short journeys through the camp. He is remarkably
clean and dainty in his habits, his coat shining like polished bronze.
He would guard my person or my coat with his life, the most faithful,
intelligent and affectionate dog I have ever had. I love that dog.
"Ring" is also willing, but has not the intelligence or the good nature
of "Moose." He is a scrapper and apt to embroil the rest of the team in
a general fight. But he will work all day at his highest tension.
"Teddy" and "Sheep," the "wheel dogs," are not so valuable as the other
three. "Teddy" has the longest hair and the lightest weight of any, and
the least strength; but he is a willing little fellow and a very keen
hunter. Make a noise like a squirrel or a bird, and he will prick up
his ears and dash down the path after the game, and when a real rabbit
or ptarmigan crosses his path he will tear madly along until the game
is passed. You can fool him every minute of the day, and Breeze has
a way of imitating the little birds that keeps "Teddy" working his
hardest.
"Sheep" is a malingerer. He is a clown, and so comical that you cannot
help laughing at him, even when you know he deserves a good thrashing.
He is fat, heavy and awkward. In color he is a light, tawny yellow,
with long hair like "Teddy," but labors under the serious disability
of having a different gait from the others. They are pacers; he is a
trotter. When they are swinging rhythmically along at a five-mile
gait, "Sheep" has to lope, his trot not being equal to the occasion.
He has a way of playing off sick or fagged; but if game appears, he
forgets all about his pretenses, his lameness is all gone in a second
and he is the keenest of the team. Also, when nearing the camp he
forgets his weariness and pulls harder than any of the team. It is
necessary to let him see the whip constantly, and occasionally to feel
it, and he is the only one of the team that necessitates its use at all.
About once a day, on the trail, a funny scene has to be enacted.
We may be laboring up a long hill, or wallowing through deep snow,
the difficult ascent requiring every man and dog to do his best.
"Sheep" will get tired, and, with a backward look at me to see if I
am noticing, will let his traces slacken. I give him a touch of the
whip, and, although he can hardly feel the lash through his thick
coat, he yelps and pulls manfully for a short distance; but presently
his trace chain sags again. Soon "Leader" notices the heavier pulling
and, knowing where the blame lies, turns his head, shows his teeth and
growls at "Sheep," who jumps into his collar and pulls like a good
fellow. Soon he forgets and lets up again, getting a fiercer growl
from "Leader." A third time he is a slacker. Then "Leader" stops and
begins to swing around carefully so as not to tangle the harness.
"Moose" and "Ring" and "Teddy" all stand still and look at "Sheep."
That unfortunate trotter lies down on his back with his feet in the
air and begins to howl in anguish. I sit down on the sled and wait--I
know what is coming. "Leader" reaches "Sheep" and for about a minute
there is a bedlam of savage growls from "Leader" and piercing shrieks
from "Sheep." I notice that "Leader" does not take the culprit by the
throat, but only pinches the loose hide on his breast and side. That
cannot injure him, so I am not uneasy. The punishment over, "Leader"
resumes his place. "Sheep" gets up and shakes himself with an air of
relief. I take the handle-bars and call "Mush." For the rest of the day
"Sheep" pulls for all he is worth; but the next day he forgets and has
to be trounced again.
I am conscious that this story may have a "fishy" flavor for some of my
readers, but I can assure them it is true.
But mine are all fine little dogs, not as large as the malamute, but
with more courage, spirit and intelligence. The long hair protects them
from the cold and they will cuddle down in the snow contentedly, curled
up like little shrimps, and let it cover them.
We must take along enough feed for the dogs, to last them from salmon
stream to salmon stream. The staple of their feed is dried salmon; it
goes a long way for its weight. We start with a hundred pounds of it,
and fifty pounds of rice and tallow. This, boiled into a savory mess
and served once a day (when they stop for the night), keeps the dogs
fat and hearty. We shall replenish the supply at intervals, for five
dogs will eat an immense amount of food, and must have all that they
can eat at their daily meal.
The sled is a basket-sleigh with handle-bars and brake at the back and
a "gee-pole" in front, with an extra rope when we have to "neck it" to
help the dogs. My wolf-robe is spread on the floor of the sleigh for
my accommodation in the brief intervals of riding. For dog mushing in
Alaska does not mean luxuriously riding in your sleigh wrapped up in
your fur robe while the dogs haul you along the trail. When Dr. Egbert
Koonce sledded twelve hundred miles from Rampart to Valdez in 1902
on his way to the General Assembly, I told the Assembly of the feat.
A good friend from Philadelphia said: "It must after all be a really
luxurious way of traveling, wrapped up in your furs and reclining in a
comfortable sleigh behind your dogs." I turned to Koonce and asked him
how much of that twelve hundred miles he rode. "About two miles," he
replied.
I shall ride more than this on my way to Seward, but there will not
be many places where I can ride half a mile at a stretch without
getting out and running behind the dogs. The beauty of "dog mushing"
is that you are compelled to work as hard as the dogs. You are not
on a well-beaten boulevard; you are wending your way around trees
and stumps, over hummocks, up and down hills, along the sides of the
mountains, and must keep your hands on the handle-bars, lifting the
sled on the trail when it runs off and often breaking the trail ahead
with your snow-shoes. When the dogs are on fairly good roads they swing
along uninterruptedly and you run your best behind. If there are two
of you, one holds the handle-bars and the other sprints along, either
in front or behind the sleigh. You will get pretty tired the first two
or three days, but after your muscles become hardened and you get your
second wind, you can run at your keenest gait two or three miles at a
time.
But let us get started. All preparations are made, the supply of
dog-feed loaded, our robes and blankets put aboard, heavy canvas corded
around the load and our snow-shoes strapped on top. We shall not need
a gun, for there will be plenty of game to be had at the roadhouses,
and we shall not have time to bother with hunting. We have a long
journey to make and everything must bend to getting over the ground.
That "ribbon of the trail" must be unwound for five hundred and twenty
miles. A company of warm and sympathetic friends foregather to bid us
"good-bye," and off we go.
The trail is well beaten from Iditarod to Flat City, seven and a half
miles, and I get aboard, with Breeze at the handle-bars. My huskies
leap into the harness at the word of command and we make a flying
start. They are just as keen to go as we are, and seem to enjoy it as
well. I ride perhaps half a mile then jump off without stopping the
team, and run ahead of the dogs up the long hill. I soon find my fur
parka too heavy, and discard it for the lighter one made of drilling,
in which I do the rest of my mushing to the end of the trail. Moccasins
are on my feet, for the trail must be taken flat-footed if one is to
have reasonable comfort.
After two or three miles we leave the broad road and strike the trail
through the wilderness. Our sled is twenty-one inches wide, light and
shod with steel, and the trail, henceforth, will be about twenty-four
inches in width, sometimes sunken deep, where snow has not recently
fallen and the trail has been well beaten, sometimes only a trace along
the snow where the wind has blown it clean and where the trail is hard.
We soon begin to labor up the first divide. No more riding now. The
trail is hard enough to dispense with snow-shoes, but heavy enough to
make us both walk and labor. I strike the trail ahead, leaving Breeze
to the handle-bars. I begin to feel the joy of it. The keen, light, dry
air is like wine. The trail winds through the woods, along the edges of
gorges, then up a steep mountain. Now the timber ceases and we have
rounded, wind-swept summits. I leave the dogs far behind, for it is
heavy pulling up the steep. Their bells tinkle faintly from below. I
gain nearly a mile on them before they round the summit. I strike my
lope down the farther side, but soon hear the bells as they charge down
upon me and pass me, swinging on towards the roadhouse.
We only make twenty miles the first day, for it was nearly noon when
we started, and we are glad to stop at "Bonanza Roadhouse" as dusk is
coming on. How good the moose meat tastes! How sweet the beds of hard
boards and blankets! The luxury of rest we enjoy to the full. The dogs
are fed, our moccasins and socks hung up to dry, and we crawl in our
bunks with sighs of relief. There is no floor in the roadhouse; all
the lumber has been whipsawed by hand, the furniture manufactured out
of boxes and stumps, the utensils of the rudest. But the luxury of
splendid meat and good sour-dough bread and coffee makes us feel that
we have all that goes to make life desirable.
An early morning start is necessary. We eat our breakfast by
candle-light, fill up our thermos bottle with hot coffee, take a
big hunk of roasted meat for lunch, and "hit the trail" by daylight.
Twenty-six miles to-day--to "Moorecreek Roadhouse." Snow begins to
fall, and soon the trail is obliterated by the fast-coming feathery
flakes. Now the snow-shoes must be unstrapped and one of us break the
trail ahead. We take turns and swing along at a three and a half mile
gait. This is real work, and we reach the roadhouse in the middle of
the afternoon, but not so tired as on the preceding day.
These are samples of the journey throughout; but oh, the variety!--no
two miles alike--and the panorama of beauty that unfolds before us!
"Each fir tree flings a bridal veil,
A bridal veil of shimmering white,
Like stately maidens tall and bright,
Slow marching as to solemn rite
Beside the ribbon of the trail."
Notice the beauty of the frost sparkling on the trees. The wonderful
law that gives its own distinct varieties of frost crystals to
each species of tree, fir, spruce, birch, cottonwood or alder, is
exemplified so plainly here that, after the first examination, you can
tell the kind of tree under the frost crystals by the shade of silver.
The mountains tower above you, wind-swept, waving snow-banners. The
vastness of that white hush awes and thrills you. A rough sound would
be blasphemy in the solemn silence. The whole landscape is a poem.
To relate even the leading incidents of this "joy-mush" of three weeks
would take up too much space. The longest distance we traveled in any
one day was fifty-five miles; while our hardest and longest day's
struggle through drifted snow and over a steep mountain pass yielded
us only twelve miles of trail. In most of the roadhouses I found old
friends, and, in several of them, Christian people who had been members
of missions I had established in new mining camps. What grand times
we had together! No fellowship is so warm and sweet as that of the
wilderness. Of many adventures on the trail I can give but two.
One morning, about half-way from Iditarod to Seward, we left the fine
cabin of French Joe, on the South Fork of the Kuskoquim River, under
the two beautiful peaks, Mts. Egypt and Pyramid. We were making for
Rainy Pass over the Alaskan Range. What follows is an extract from an
account I wrote at the time.
The day out from Joe's I meet with my first disaster. We have nineteen
miles of absolutely clear ice on the South Fork of the Kuskoquim. The
river is full of air-holes and open riffles. The dogs swing along at
a ripping pace, digging their toe nails into the hard ice, the sled
slipping sideways and sliding dangerously near to the open places.
Breeze often has to run ahead at full speed to choose a route, for
there is no trail on the ice. Half-way up the river I "get gay," as
Breeze calls it. I leave the handle-bars to find a route, and fall down
hard on the smooth ice. A sharp pang strikes through the small of my
back as if from a spear-thrust. I get up and go along, thinking the
pain will cease, but soon I realize that I am in the grip of an old
enemy, lumbago.
From this point on to Seward I cannot make a move without pain,
sometimes so great that I gasp for breath. At night in the roadhouse I
have great trouble in getting into my bunk, and sometimes Breeze has
to lift me out in the morning. Were I at home I would be in bed for a
couple of weeks with doctors and nurses fussing over me, but it is
just as well that I cannot stop. I take the philosophy of an old fellow
in the "Rainy Pass Roadhouse" near the summit of the range, who says
the best cure for a lame back is to "keep on a-mushin'"!
Beyond Rainy Pass we drop into the canyon of Happy River, and here we
have our famous moose-hunt. Soon after we enter the gorge we come upon
its tracks--a big bull-moose. We have already traveled nearly thirty
miles to-day, and are anxious to make the roadhouse twelve or fifteen
miles further on; and now, here comes this big, blundering beast to
poke our trail full of deep holes and excite our dogs. He is running
ahead of us. The snow is five or six feet deep and he goes in almost to
his back at every step. The walls of the canyon are sheer and he cannot
escape up its side. The river turns and winds, and here and there are
little patches of level ground, thick with large spruce trees.
For three miles we do not catch sight of the moose, but our dogs show
that he is on ahead. In spite of my lame back I have to struggle on
in front of them and bat "Leader" in the face with my cap, Breeze
standing on the brake to keep them from running away. The moose tracks
fill our trail for a while, smashing it all to pieces, then veer
sideways to a little patch of woods, and the dogs go pell-mell in the
moose track, burying our sled out of sight in the deep snow. Then we
have to haul them around and lift the sled on the track again, and try
to get them along the trail.
Three miles down the river we catch sight of the big moose, and the
dogs go wild. "Sheep," who has been disposed to malinger, is the worst
of the lot. He forgets all his maladies and weariness and dashes
forward, but "Leader" will not leave the track and swings along as
best he can, except when the moose is in full sight. Then I have
to bat him in the face to keep the team in bounds. Our bells are
tingling, our dogs barking and we are shouting. It is a fearsome thing
to the bull-moose, this animated machine that is charging down the
river at him. So on he struggles through the deep snow, spoiling our
trail and filling my companion's mind with blasphemous thoughts which
occasionally break out in expression, in spite of his respect for my
"cloth."
Four miles of this moose-hunt, with the big brute growing more tired
and we more anxious to pass him. Instead of our hunting the moose he
is haunting us. At last, around a little point of woods, we see him
lying down in the middle of the river right ahead of us. The dogs break
bounds and almost upset me as they dash down the trail with Breeze
standing on the brake and yelling "Whoa!" The weary bull-moose staggers
to his feet again and makes the edge of the woods, but there lies down
again.
The trail veers right up to him. I run ahead and take "Leader" and
"Ring," one in each hand, and Breeze does the same with "Teddy" and
"Sheep." "Moose" is more tractable and we can control him with our
voices. We drag the dogs bodily with the sled behind, pass the big
brute, his long face not a rod from us, and then, setting "Leader" on
the trail again, we urge them down five miles further to "Happy River
Roadhouse." That was _one_ hunt in which I was glad to lose the game.